Ratzinger didn’t fall to his doom when he jumped out the bedroom window. As I was rooting around in the cellar, searching for a spare canister of polonium-210, I heard a feeble scratching sound and a little voice croaking from the shadows.

Ach, mein Gott, it has come to this, nicht war? I have in the falling from the schlafenzimmerfenster mein arsehole gebrochen und now what to do I know not.

Dear God, I thought to myself. Am I a cruel man? Can I let this little Popehound lie here in pain where he has crawled after a hole-breaking fall – or more accurately, a hole-breaking sudden stop?

I paused a moment. Yes, I cried. I fucking can! But you know me: I fucking couldn’t, much though I wanted to smash his little Pope-dog-face into a hundred bloody shards.

Come on, you little bollix, I muttered, scooping the little dog-Pope up in one hand and grabbing the can of polonium-210 from his jaws with the other. What are we going to do with you at all at all at all?

Well, for one thing, you can the shattered pelvis fixen machen, he replied, which, I had to admit, didn’t seem unreasonable.

So I called up the only ecclesiastical veterinary practice I know.

Hello? Is that Church and Doggerel? Mmmnnn, yes, Bock here. Look, you see, the thing is, I have a little, nnmmnnm, nnyeh, well, a sort of hybrid terrier and, umm, well, Pontiff. And you see, the thing is – Oh!! Really?? You do? Oh! I see! Well, I’ll be right there.

And quick as a flash, I had little Ratzinger at the surgery of Church and Doggerel, where a smiling and efficient professional slapped a full body-cast on the little tyke, while murmuring to him reassuringly in broken German.

Da geht die Sprache vor die Hunde! Schande und ewige Verdamnis ueber dich!, he snarled, and bit a lump out of the vet’s arm before I could calm him with a spray of domestic bleach in the eyes.Ratzinger, you little cunt, I shouted at him as I flung him painfully into the Bockmobile. I should have left you to chew on that polonium bone, you ungrateful little dog-Pope-person.

Und now, continued Ratzinger, as undeterred as he was ungrateful, you must the immediate flug-booking make on ze nachste Lufthansa flug to Türkei .

I will, like fuck, I said. I’m going to Wrinkly Joe’s party at the weekend and I’m taking Dermot and Satan with me. You can mind the house. Here’s a bone, I said, tossing him the tube of polonium-210. Chew on that.

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5 Responses to “Das Papahundchen”

Bad news Bock, der Papahundchen has escaped to the land of the Barbarians, in fact just across sea from where Theseus and Ariadne did their stuff. This is true for I have consulted my Sony plasma screen oracle and I have seen the evidence with my own eyes.